


(Nice Dream)

by HannibalSolo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America and England are rude, Crack, Cussing, Drinking, Explicit Language, Loner Reader, POV Female Character, Reader-Insert, Smoking, Underage Drinking, reader is smoker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6041508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannibalSolo/pseuds/HannibalSolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crack!fic I don't know if this will become any more than what I've written. Basically, you're saved from oncoming traffic by Britain's wayward spell-casting and find out that in some version of reality Hetalia is real. Either that or you died and this is Heaven. Alternate reality would be a lot more fun, nicht wahr?</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Nice Dream)

Hetalia x Reader (a Crack!Fic)  
(Nice Dream)  
Pt.1 Intruder 

College was an interesting experience. After all, you’d always enjoyed learning, and university provided plenty of opportunities for that; however, it was in some ways very unfulfilling. As many young Americans did, you’d imagined college was where a person flourished and was allowed to try new things in more open-minded company. This turned out not to be the case, as you learned all too well. At the institution you attended you’d found that people were even less open-minded than your peers in high school. Often you found you had more in common with your professors than anyone else. Since being besties with your professors was not exactly a viable option, you were consequently very lonely. No one bothered you and you rarely bothered anyone. You had friendly acquaintances but not friends, not anyone to confide the truth of your feelings and day to day life in. You were used to being alone, but still nearly every human being needs some measure of companionship, and you were no different in that regard. Your studies and your personal writing could only occupy so much of your attention and time. Sure there was Hetalia to keep you company, but it wasn’t real, and it was too silly to indulge in fantasizing about if Hetalia and its wonderful insanity was real. 

One day, during the second month of your Fall semester, you had decided to take a walk to clear your thoughts and have a smoke. The air was chilly and bit into the exposed skin of your hands. Incidentally, today was your birthday, and you were celebrating by spending the entire day in a semi-drunk state, swigging occasionally from a ‘Welcome to Night Vale’ flask hidden in your jacket pocket and thinking about how pretty the campus looked bathed in sunlight as it was at present. The way the bright, yellow-orange rays of the sun bounced off the puddles of water scattered around made it look like it should have been a lot warmer than it was, but something in the contrast was pleasing to your mildly dulled senses. Your lit cigarette hung limply from your relaxed lips, smoke trailing back and away from it, following lazily in your wake. Ghost B.C.’s “From the Pinnacle to the Pit” blasted in your ears through the buds fixed therein. Something about metal had been particularly appealing to you lately; perhaps, its operatic and theatrical qualities. 

At any rate, you were walking, black combat boot covered feet slapping against the ground, as you looked down, taking in the sight of your black skinny jeans, plain grey hoodie, and army-green pea-coat with a measure of inebriated contentment. Obviously you weren’t despondent all the time, otherwise, you would never have survived those adolescent years, notorious for their hormonal and emotional turbulence. Survived to the ripe age of twenty. None too shabby of you, if I may say so. I will anyway. You were a survivor if nothing else, an admirable quality, but one that came at a price. Emotions were often signs of weakness in your father’s house growing up, so you’d learned quickly to hide them. You weren’t going to let those bastards with whom you had to grow up grind you down, but, consequently, your heart had hardened over to a degree, as much as it could, considering that it was, in fact, a very big heart. You didn’t know how to properly express feelings now and often gave people an impression of coldness or sometimes relaxed indifference, though you were capable of the deepest affections. More on that later.

You noticed two frat guys from the Kappa Theta Gamma house were tossing a football back and forth nearby, as you continued walking, preparing to cross the street, your music still blasting full volume. You felt a sharp poke in your back, as you stepped out into the roadway, turning to adjust your backpack. It was fully packed with your laptop, a few books, your journals, and phone and Ipod charger, as you had been on your way to the local café to get some quality studying or writing done over the next few hours. When you looked up from adjusting your backpack, your eyes were greeted by the bright sheen of a car moving at an alarming rate—straight towards you. Reflexively throwing up your hands and closing your eyes, you couldn’t even muster a scream, as you awaited the impact of the hood and grill…but it never came.

 

“Britain, what the hell are you doing now? What the—Ny-uh!” a voice cried out, startled. Your ear buds had been jostled loose and hung to the side, music faintly blaring, and you remained with your eyes closed and hands up a few moments more purely from shock. Amazingly your cigarette was still intact and hanging from your mouth. 

Keeping your eyes squeezed shut, you shakily took a drag and flicked some ash away. Slowly you opened your sealed lids, mouth dropping as you took in the sight before you. There you were, standing in the middle of the world conference room of Hetalia, inside the round the table, as all the anthropomorphized representations of the world’s greatest countries were filing in. Britain was standing in front of you, wearing a sharp suit that was made slightly less classy by the bulky, black, hooded robe that was draped on top of it. America was staring at you: Germany, Japan, Austria, and France too, as they had been the first to follow behind America. “Seriously, what the hell, Britain!?” America shouted. Britain looked at you, his bushy brows knitted tightly together in confusion. 

“You’re not the first of the fallen,” Britain said to you dubiously. You took another drag, flicked some more ash, and words tumbled from your mouth intermixed with smoke. 

“What, ‘cause I’m a woman? Haven’t you seen the ‘Bedazzled’ remake?” Your voice sounded weird and distant.

“Britain, who ze hell is this? Und vhat ze hell game are you playing today?” Germany demanded, his teeth clenching and nostrils flaring. 

The rest of the countries walked in, taking their seats and whispering amongst themselves, abuzz with curiosity about the strange intruder (i.e. you). “I was trying to summon Lucifer, but something must’ve gone wrong and I summoned this wanker instead,” Britain said gesturing dismissively at you. You scoffed, taking another drag and blowing it directly in Britain’s face, forcing him into a coughing fit. 

“But vhy were you trying to summon Lucifer? Und you, put zhat out, no smoking in here!” Germany said. 

A nicotine buzz had settled in your head pleasantly and you were still a little drunk, though almost dying had done a good job of sobering you up a bit. You goofily clicked your heels together and saluted the burly, blond man with a smirk.

“Javoll, Cap’n Shouts-a-lot!” you cried, dropping the cigarette and stamping it out. Germany grunted in way of reply and returned his focus to Britain, who despondently kicked at the summoning circle you now noticed beneath your feet. 

“I was trying to summon Lucifer and bind him to my will so that I could use his evil influence to crush all of you and to regain the former glory of the British Empire of centuries past, if you must know,” Britain said petulantly. 

“Sacré bleu, you are completely insane!” France cried, clearly distressed by the evil aura beginning to pulsate around Britain’s sulking form.

“Former glory? Right because you were such an improvement over the Mughal Empire in India and the—” you began to rant, the know-it-all in you protesting. 

“She is clearly an American citizen and so, as the hero, I now demand you return her to wherever you took her from, you kooky limey!” America shouted, trying to take charge. 

“I suppose you’re right this once, you git,” Britain said, looking at you and beginning to chant.

“Wait!” you shouted, “What if you return me somewhere half way across from where I was, or you return me to where I was but at the exact moment I left, which would make me a very dead or broken American citizen. You—er, summoned me right when I was about to get hit by a car, a very fast moving car. Plus, I mean you can’t return me just yet. I just found out you guys were real and not just anime characters—and holy shit, what am I saying? This can’t be real, can it? Oh, fuck me,” you rambled nervously, slapping yourself really hard across the face, then crying out in pain. “Feels real. But, how? Does that mean magic is real and not just something I dreamed about as a child? Shit. Does that make God real? Oh, he’s gotta be so pissed at me for all those times I’ve cursed him and told him he sucked.” You felt panic seeping in and proceeded to take out your flask, taking a long draught. Captain Morgan’s brown rum burned down your throat, restoring some of your usual calm.

Britain looked at you dumbfounded, as did all of the other countries in the room, everyone having fallen silent. “Does that mean I…I saved your life?” You thought about it.

“I suppose so. Thanks for that, by the way,” you replied weakly. “How weird would that have been? Dying on my birthday.”

“It’s your birthday!? Urrà! Happy birthday,” Italy enthused from his seat, where he was just a moment before playing with the cat resting on his head. 

“I would like to be knowing what you mean by just finding out we were real and not anime characters?” Russia chimed from his seat, the sound of his voice causing Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia to begin trembling. 

“Yes, I agree with Russia. What is it you mean by this?” Japan added, addressing you directly. You looked between the two countries, and grimaced slightly. Suddenly you sensed a presence behind you.

“Brother asked you a question,” Belarus hissed. Mildly irritated with Russia’s possessive younger sister, as you always had been when watching Hetalia, you turned to face her, dead-pan. You’d tangled with her kind of crazy before in real life and refused to be cowed by it.

“And I’m about to answer his question, but I suggest you take a step back, sister. Before I pimp-slap you into the next calendar year,” you said deathly serious (after all, the best way to contend with crazy was with your own brand of crazy). “Anyway,” you smiled mildly, “What I mean is that where I’m from, you guys are just fictional characters in a manga and anime series called Hetalia. You’re not real where I’m from, which sucks, am I right?”

“Bro-ha, that totally sucks balls! We can’t send you back there, even if Britain could without fucking it up royally. Ha-ha, get it, royally? ‘Cause he’s like all about his queen?” America shouted, laughing obnoxiously.

“Me fuck it up? You don’t even know anything about magic, you bloody swamp donkey! But since I can’t…reasonably guarantee you safe passage home,” Britain paused, looking at you seriously. “I feel obligated to offer you a place to live at my house. It is my fault you are here after all and for that I offer you a gentleman’s apology.” You couldn’t help but smile at Britain’s formal tone. 

“No way! She’s American, she’ll live with me. That way she’ll remain cool and still be able to achieve cool things with her life, instead of living with you, ya limey, and sucking! What do you want to be…Er, also what’s your name?” America hopped over the table and walked over to you with his hand extended, as Britain let loose a string of obscenities.

“Um, my name is _________ __________, and I always wanted to be a writer,” you said simply, completely stymied by your current predicament. Every time you thought you had your mind wrapped around it, you were shocked once again.

“Well, in America if you can dream it, you can be it! Plus, we need more good writers to shove in the other countries’ stupid faces. Especially since that douche-bag Britain stole T.S. Eliot and Italy stole that Pound dude. You are good aren’t you?” America demanded, pumping your arm up and down with vigor.

“We-well, that’s not really for me to say. An audience would have to decide,” you said, always hyper-conscious about your writing, both poetry and fiction. America shook you so hard your Ipod fell out of your jacket pocket onto the floor and shuffle activated. Suddenly, Rammstein’s “Bestrafe Mich” was blasting through the little ear buds audibly in the eerily quiet room. Managing somehow to extricate yourself from America’s unwitting vice grip, you bent to pick up the indigo device, blushing at how loudly it was playing. You accidently caught Germany’s eye when you were straightening up and proceeded to pretend that you hadn’t, pressing pause as America announced that you’d read something for all the countries right there and then. You couldn’t help but blanch at the very idea, sputtering, “What? No! I mean, what?” 

“Sure, we can figure out if you’re any good right here and now. If writing’s not your thing, there’s plenty of other stuff for a red-blooded American to do,” he said cheerfully and obliviously.

“But—but, surely you guys have more important things to—” you began.

“Sure, but this is a lot more fun,” America interjected.

“I agree! I love poetry a lot more than politics,” Italy cried with a smile so great you thought it might crack his face in half. 

“As super veird as it is, I actually agree vith zhat brute, America. I’d feel much better about zhis meeting if it began vith some art of some sort,” Austria said with a fastidious sniff. 

“If zhis is vhat it takes to get things underway then so be it,” Germany said resignedly. “Bitte, read something to shut them up,” he added, looking you in the eye. 

“Well, shit,” you said, looking around, receiving a little wave from Spain and a wink and mimed kiss from France. Russia just smiled that steady, deceptive smile. “Right, never show the enemy the fear, da?” Russia blinked, mildly surprised before replying.  
“Da, that is correct.”

“All right then. I’ll read a poem, short and sweet, then I’m going out for a smoke. ‘Kay, here goes nothing,” you said, taking another swig out of your flask and rifling through your backpack for a particular journal. Leather, dark-brown, and with a creased spine, you pulled out the journal you had in mind. Picking through the pages, you found the poem you had in mind to read. You cleared your throat and began:

To a Cigarette

I feel the magnitude of your love long  
Before the raw stem let go its last wisp;  
The tongues of others never to taste this seductress’s song  
Are the sad souls rolling softly along my lips  
In whispers forgotten, while I leaned tensely ‘gainst  
Boxcars, forty odd miles far from the drugstore you call home.

The heat runs th’length of your teasing form, leaving me incensed  
Because I know this means I will soon be alone—  
Circumventing that you leave me euphoric, you do but leave me!  
Like you, this solitary hour recedes from the light;  
We reach the end, the filter; th’night is cold, and I see  
That you are simply a cigarette, not a lover forming designs.

Future caution I shall employ in what vices I feed.  
Freedom reaches not where want often leads.

“Well, that should do it, yup,” you said, picking up your stuff and leaping over the table to step outside. You walked down the hallway, until you turned a corner, approaching one of the tall, massive windows and managing to open a set wide. You propped yourself against the frame leaning your head out into the fresh, open air before lighting up a fresh cigarette. A few minutes passed, as you sat, having put an ear bud in to listen to your music, when the sound of footsteps coming toward you caught your attention.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback would be welcome and I know the reader is very specific in personality type but hope this reader pov is still enjoyable nonetheless. Feedback would also be helpful, like how you feel the various countries would react to the reader and reader's writing. There are a lot of different ways things could go. Also, the poem at the end is an original by yours truly. Hopefully, it doesn't suck :D


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